


they say they saw him with a gun

by cantbelieveimdoingthis (paox)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, First War with Voldemort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Sirius Black, M/M, Multi, Politics, Polyamory, The Marauders Hunt the Horcruxes, Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-27 17:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paox/pseuds/cantbelieveimdoingthis
Summary: “But if I don’t do anything, he’s going to die out there, and even…” James swallows and forces out the next words. “Even if he’s already dead, he’ll stay unavenged. And I can’t let that happen.”Lily looks him up and down. “You really care about Black, don't you?”“So much,” James admits, the words escaping like water through a dam. “So fucking much.”.(or: Sirius Black disappears in the summer before fifth year. This changes many things, including James Potter. Like a malformed, rotten thing, the war distends into something poisonous.)
Relationships: James Potter & Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin/James Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uwu usual drill: fuck jkr, and if you agree with her, this isn't for you. 
> 
> this idea hit me like a truck last week so im gonna write it. like the orange tree is still going, no fear, but im gonna work on this monster, too. from what i can predict, it's gonna be LONG. so that's fun 
> 
> the title is taken from the song 'this body means nothing to me' by shrimp, which also happens to have been what inspired this whole thing. it's a real banger of a song, check it out if you're so inclined. rlly hits the spot for existential white dude indie which is actually tolerable. 
> 
> anyway. enjoy!

_ Pads, _

_ Happy Summer Holidays! I know we’ve got the mirrors, but writing letters is nice, too. I feel like I’m leaving you out when I just write to Moony and Wormtail, and plus, I think Bullet likes delivering letters to London.  _

_ How are you surviving so far? Haven’t managed to get you to pick up my mirror-calls since we left the platform as of writing this, you twat, so next time, answer me. It’s great here. My dad got me a new broom and the dementors recently moved a few towns down. They do that every few months, migrating a little further inland. Makes you wonder what you-know-who is telling them to do. Maybe they’re just meant to spook people. That sounds like him, doesn’t it?  _

_ So anyway, I can fly a lot now, and pretty far out, too, so that’s what I’m doing with my time for the most part. My dad’s busier and busier at the ministry, and mum’s out a lot, too, though she won’t tell me where she goes. I figure it’s something that’ll slip out eventually. It’s weird though, isn’t it? How secretive everybody gets. That’s war, I guess. Knowing your family, they’re scheming like nothing else, right? I bet they’re plotting my murder right now as we speak. Luckily, you’re pretty good at eavesdropping, so hopefully they won’t get me down just yet.  _

_ My wrist is cramping up, mate. Write me back if your mirror’s broken, okay? I’m not worried but it’s boring out here on my own. We’d love for you to come over sometime.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

_ Pads,  _

_ It’s been two weeks, mate. It’s not really funny anymore. _

_ Did you really break your mirror? Usually I can see the inside of your back pocket when I call and you don’t pick up, or your bedroom ceiling, but I haven’t seen anything through it in ages. Since before the end of term, I think. Just my own (admittedly very handsome) face. If this is a joke, I’m not laughing. I mean, it’s funny. But also, stop.  _

_ Moony came over the other day. He hates flying -- says it makes him feel sick -- so we went down to the lake and swam all afternoon, ‘til he saw some big fish in the water and got spooked. He says hi. Apparently he’s been sending you letters too. Did you get them? He said he hasn’t gotten an answer, either.  _

_ Peter says hello, too. He’s got a part time job at a muggle shop on his mum’s street, so he’s busy a lot, but he hopes you’re okay, which is about as much as you can get out of him on a good day, so take it.  _

_ Please write back. Seriously. No pun intended.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs. _

_ Pads, _

_ Thought I’d give it a good long break after the last letter, shake some sense into you, y’know? Make you worried like I am, you git.  _

_ Didn’t work, apparently. Happy July! And happy one-month-out-of-school. I’m really bloody stressed about you right now. I almost flooed to your house the other day, but my wand isn’t keyed into it, so I probably would’ve gotten stranded somewhere in the floo network because of your damn wards.  _

_ Dad told mum to tell me to tell you that if you need to get out of there, you can stay with us. He’ll deal with the legal stuff, too, he said, though between you and me, I think he’s not too eager to get into it with the Blacks. He wishes you his best, though, and mum’s worried about you, too. Remus and Peter both say you haven’t replied to any of their letters, either. Remus is really put out about it, really stressed. If this makes him any more worried than usual I think he might just explode.  _

_ I keep remembering the beginning of second year, that huge bruise on the back of your neck that didn’t go away for months. Dark magic, wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been natural. I think you thought I didn’t see it, but I did. I saw a lot of things you didn’t want me to see.  _

_ I’m worried. I don’t know what you’ve gotten into your head, if you think we’re better off without you or whatever, but fucking write back, please? Please.  _

_ You know the drill. One call -- one owl -- just give me the heads up and I’ll fly to London to get you. I’d go anywhere.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Prongs. _

_ Pads, _

_ Lily Evans came over the other day, took the muggle bus to Godric’s Hollow. She said it was just to review the transfig homework, because she knows I’m the best in the year and she didn’t have access to any sources for the essay, but I think she’s finally coming around, you know that? She smiled at me a few times, Padfoot! Properly smiled! What a win! _

_ When I told her about you, she wasn’t worried. I think she thinks I’m blowing it out of proportion. I guess she might be right -- you are a bit of a drama queen at the best of times -- but she doesn’t know you like I do, and I’m worried, really worried, more worried by the day, and she seemed to understand that. She sends you her best wishes. She said if you’re not back for the school year, she’ll help us find you.  _

_ It’s been almost two months. I keep writing letters and screwing them up and throwing them away, because it feels a lot less like chatting and a lot more like survival. I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing and it’ll be the last bloody thing of mine you ever read. I don’t want my last words to you to be me telling you I think you’re a right prick and you smell bad.  _

_ I’ve considered that they might be reading your mail, intercepting your letters back to me. If they are, I guess I’ve embarrassed myself, haven’t I? Being so bloody concerned.  _

_ If you can, please write back.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

_ Pads,  _

_ Did you get Dumbledore’s letter? Or did your family not let you read it?  _

_ On the off-chance you get a hold of this and not that: Dumbledore sent out a letter to all returning students about the new school year. Apparently there’s gonna be ‘new security measures in place for the foreseeable future’, because he’s worried about death eaters and the like. My parents are fretting about it already. I don’t blame them. Things are getting really bloody scary out there.  _

_ I can’t wait to see you again. Only a month to go! I don’t know what to write anymore.  _

_ Please just fucking stay safe. Promise me you will.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

_ Pads,  _

_ My mother broke down and told me what she’s been doing today. Apparently, she’s been out helping to form a group of witches to build overseas safehouses for muggleborn kids, just in case things get ugly, which she thinks they will. Safehouses for muggleborns, Sirius. What the hell? The world is going loopy.  _

_ The ministry seems very quiet. All the reports about disappearances and murders are sliding to the back page of the Prophet. I’m worried. Really worried. My dad thinks he might lose his job, too. Personally, I’m not so sure, because anybody with two eyes can see he’s amazing at what he does, but...  _

_ Anyway. Apart from all that, you’re pretty much all I think about nowadays. I’ve sort of come to terms with the fact that you’re probably in a rough situation right now. I wish the world would stop doing that. Putting my best friend between a rock and a hard place and… it seems like you’ve been through too much bullshit for one person, y’know? I don’t need to tell you that. I think you’re very, very aware. I keep fucking thinking about that bruise, Sirius, second year, dark on the back of your neck as you got changed in the boys’ dorm. I can’t stop seeing it in my head.  _

_ Evans came over again. She’s worried, too. About herself, about the world, and about you. She seemed like she meant it when she told me to send you her best, so.  _

_ Running out of space. I love you, mate. I love you.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

_ Pads,  _

_ Need anything from Diagon Alley? I’m doing Evans’ shopping for her for the new school year, too, because she’s anxious about going into wizarding London right now, and Peter’s as well. Remus is coming with me. He’s fretting about you, so I guess I’m going to have to put up with that all day.  _

_ Being in London is gonna suck. Being so close and yet so far, I guess.  _

_ Write back, we go tomorrow!  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

_ Pads,  _

_ I got extras of all my books. It’s OWL year, and I don’t want you failing! If by some miracle you’ve got your own and you’re fine when we get there for the year, then… well. We’ve got spares.  _

_ Only five more days. Then, this stupid, horrible summer is over. Just keep thinking about it, okay? How soon it is.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

_ Pads,  _

_ We leave for the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning, and it’s already midnight, so I don’t know if my owl will get this to you in time. Guess that’s fine. You don’t really need to read this, I just gotta get it off my chest.  _

_ I hadn’t really realised how shit everything is without you. How much it all sucks when you’re not there. But this summer was horrible, Sirius. And not just because I spent the whole time worried about you and Evans and the war and my parents. It was shit because I did all of that and you weren’t there to do it with me.  _

_ I don’t really know what it all means. The stuff I’ve realised I’m feeling. It’ll probably be super bloody awkward in the dorm again, if you’re there, but y’know what, I think we’ll be okay. And I think Remus feels the same, if that’s any consolation. I think he gets on your last nerve a little less than I do.  _

_ I don’t ever want you to go back to that house, okay? Next summer you’ll be sixteen, and you can come home with me, and it’s all gonna be perfect. My parents love you even more than they love me, and that’s saying something, and Peter and Remus and Evans can come over, and everything’s gonna be fine, even with the war.  _

_ I hate worrying about you. I hate not knowing if you’re okay. It’s horrible.  _

_ We all love you. I love you.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs. _

* * *

Remus finds him on the platform, snaring James’ wrist as he appears through the steam. “James!” 

“Moony!” James drags him in for a short, fierce hug. “Missed you, mate.” 

“You saw me last week.” Nonetheless, Remus grabs the back of his jacket and squeezes back. “Come on, my parents already left. Most of the good compartments are still empty, I think-” 

They crowd onto the train together, trunks scraping together as they haul them aboard. In the frontmost carriage, they find an empty compartment and collapse inside, shoving their trunks into the overhead storage. James takes the left window seat and Remus takes the right one. 

“You haven’t seen him yet?” James asks immediately. 

Remus shakes his head, peering out over the platform. “You neither?” 

James shakes his head. “No, nothing. Haven’t heard anything, still.” He doesn’t mention last night’s letter. There will be time for that later.

“I wonder if he knows how much he worries us,” Remus asks absently, more rhetorical than anything. “Bet he’d be delighted if he saw the state of us.” 

“I’m sure.” James sits back in his seat, folding his arms over his stomach. “Damn it all. He’s not gonna turn up.” 

“Don’t lose hope yet.” 

But James already knows it. Dread and resignation wage a war in the bottom of his stomach. He feels nauseous. 

The compartment door slides open and Peter shuffles in, round face bright with happiness. “James, Remus!” 

James gets up to give him a tight hug. “Missed you, mate.” 

Peter beams up at him as Remus takes his trunk. Then, just as quickly, his face falls. “I haven’t heard anything either, before you ask. Nothing.” 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.” Peter takes a seat next to Remus, watching the platform. “We’ve still got ten minutes until the train leaves, though.” 

Tense, ugly silence falls. After some time, Lily Evans joins them, and James feels so sick he doesn’t even have it in him to compliment her as she shuffles into the seat beside him, looking out over the platform, long hair in plaits. 

“Nothing?” she asks Remus. “From Black, I mean.” 

Remus shakes his head. “Nobody’s seen him, and there’s still been no response to any of us.” 

“Oh.” Lily stares down at the tabletop between them all. “I expected he’d give up the ghost by now.” 

“We’re pretty sure it isn’t a prank.” 

Lily nods solemnly. “I’m starting to agree. I’ll stay here with you all until the train leaves, anyway.” 

They slip back into silence, all of them looking out of the window with intent. Excited first years and worried parents, and a hoard of Hufflepuffs with broomsticks, and a cluster of tired-looking seventh years. No Sirius Black. 

When the train jolts under them, whistling loudly from the front carriage, Lily stands up. 

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she says awkwardly. “Bye, Potter.” 

“Bye,” James says, not looking away from the window because he thinks he couldn’t muster a smile if he tried. 

She pulls her trunk upright and leaves, the door sliding closed behind her as she treks off to find Snape, probably. The platform begins to move out from under them, dragged away as the train moves off, and the platform becomes a blur of waving parents and white steam. 

And no Sirius. 

“I’ll start checking through the train,” Peter offers, slipping out. Remus follows him, squeezing James’ arm on the way out.

James probably should, too, but he feels far too sick, and he already knows everything he needs to know. 

Sirius Black is not returning for this year. 

No Sirius all through the train ride. No Sirius as they make their way into the Great Hall. No Sirius at the feast. Five or six people ask James where his friend Black is all through the evening, despite how valiantly Remus and Peter try to fend off wonderers. James can’t even enjoy the food, despite how hungry he is, because his stomach is in knots and all he wants to do is lie down and rest his aching head. 

Even a few teachers seem to be casting their incomplete little group more glances than usual. James catches McGonagall staring at him halfway through dessert. He stares right back until she looks away. 

The journey up to Gryffindor Tower feels like it takes years. Other Gryffindors give the three of them some space in the common room, murmuring. James pounds up the boys’ staircase to the fifth years’ dorm, then pauses, hand on the knob. 

_ Let him be in there. Let him be in there.  _

Seeming to sense that James doesn’t really have the strength for it, Remus pushes the door open, hand on his own. Inside, three beds are lined up against the wall. 

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ Dumbledore won’t tell us what happened. I marched up to his office on the first night back, when we saw they got rid of your bed, and he said it’s ‘private family business, unfortunately, so as much as he’d like to tell us what’s happening, he is currently unable to give us any answers’. Bullshit. All I know is you’re not a Hogwarts Student anymore, and I miss you. What the fuck, I miss you. I miss you so much. It’s been two weeks and I think I’m gonna implode because there’s this huge you-shaped hole in my life and I can’t stand it.  _

_ I don’t know how everything can feel so WRONG all at once. Classes feel wrong, pranks feel wrong, quidditch feels wrong. Everything sucks and I’m tired. Even Evans seems sorry for me, and I can’t even do anything because every time I try to flirt with her, I just end up thinking about you and I get sad. I started crying in front of her the other day, I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life. I think Remus is getting very bloody sick of dealing with me. But I don’t feel whole without you.  _

_ Bullet seems to think you’re still at Hogwarts. He gets confused about how to find you, but every letter I give him he eventually flies off with - south, London maybe - and he comes back without, so somebody must be receiving them. It’s like you’ve dropped off the face of the planet, Padfoot. Nobody knows anything.  _

_ Regulus isn’t back, either. Took me a while to confirm that, but he’s missing as well, and Dumbledore won’t tell me anything about that, either. I wrote to dad about it and he doesn’t know anything, either. Your father is still attending ministry events, still going to work. Your mother hasn’t been seen, but that’s nothing new. They’re carrying on their lives as normal and you’re gone. What parents do that?  _

_ I swear we’ll find you. I’m not giving up on you. None of us are.  _

_ Stay safe. Stay alive. We love you. _

_ Yours, _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

The first month is spent in a mourning, grief-fuelled haze. Everything aches and the nights feel too long now that they’re not full of Sirius. James spends a lot of time sleeping. Remus writes his essays for him. Peter hovers. Lily tries to snap him out of it and it doesn’t work. 

Even the teachers seem a little sorry for him, though McGonagall makes an effort to make it clear she’s an unbiased adjudicator and won’t be handing out easy O’s. She holds James back after a class to ask if he’s alright in the first week. Numb like a zombie, James tells her he’s fine, and that’s the end of that. 

Days blur together. It gets colder and colder as autumn sets in. Sirius doesn’t reply to any of his letters, still. 

Outside the walls of their castle, the state of the world is getting worse, and maybe that’s what snaps James out of it -- when the Prophet arrives one morning in October and the front page is loud and bold with a headline about some murdered muggleborn. He stares at the page for an inscrutable amount of time and then looks up. Teary-eyed, Lily looks back at him from across the table, and it hits James that this is war. That this is how war feels -- this, staring at the paper and wondering how the murdered stranger felt as they stared down the end of a wand and prayed for mercy. 

Lily stands up, chair screeching on the floor, rushing out. James follows her.

“I want to help,” he tells her, when he finally tracks her down to an empty classroom on the west side of the castle, fourth floor. Facing away from the rising sun.

Lily’s got her arms tucked around her chest, head ducked down where she’s sitting atop one of the desks. Her legs are swinging a little. 

“I want to help,” James repeats, and crosses the room to sit opposite her, on a desk by the window. “I don’t know how, but I want to.”

She wipes her eyes hurriedly. “Potter, I really can’t put up with it today, so just… just try again tomorrow-“

“It’s not about that.” James clears his throat. “This war has already taken a friend from me. I don’t want it to take anybody else.”

Lily looks up at him through her fringe. “You really think Black’s missing? Properly missing?”

James swallows and says the hardest set of words he’s ever had to say. “I think he might be dead.”

She stills. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” James scrubs at his face with both hands. “I miss him. So much.” 

Lily doesn’t seem to know what to say. 

“It hurts. All the time. It really fucking sucks. But I’m trying to be better.”

“Right.”

“So I want to start again.” 

Lily doesn’t trust it. James can see by the look on her face. A part of her wants to blame her and another part doesn’t, but the loudest part is too tired to do much more than sit there in the shadow of the war and wait for her to reply.

“We can do some stuff,” Lily offers eventually. “I know some people who think they’re going to end up fighting in this war, one way or another. People like me who need to know how to defend themselves.”

“Okay.” 

“We can…” Her eyes brighten ever so slightly. She forces a smile. “We can try.”

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ Your disappearance hurt everyone. I think even Gryffindors who didn’t know you feel your absence. They hate it as much as I do, the idea that our friends are disappearing before our eyes. Most of them figured out you didn’t get on with your family. I think they fear the worst, and it makes everybody so hopeless.  _

_ So we’re going to try to do something about it. Lily’s agreed to help us start a little… duelling club -- just people we know we can trust, so we’re doing it privately. Without teachers knowing, y’know? Because they wouldn’t let us pick and choose who we include. Lily, Remus and I are going to run it together, and we’ve got a few older Gryffindors’ blessings.  _

_ Anyway, we don’t have a name for it yet, but we had our first meeting last week, in the Gryffindor Prefects’ meeting room on the third floor. It was a tight fit, since there’s about twenty of us. Mostly Gryffindors, though we’ve got a few puffs too, and two Ravenclaws and one Slytherin. We did healing spells, which Remus is bloody amazing at, and I think it helps people. Feeling less hopeless y’know. Next week, Lily’s going to start teaching potions. She wants everybody to know how to whip up a basic pain relief draft and something offensive, too -- something you can chuck that’ll explode on impact, or burn or something like that -- and after that, she wants to get onto the more complicated stuff.  _

_ I still think of you all the time. Remus says he’s got a plan to find you, but he won’t tell me what it is yet. Peter’s gotten all distant on us. I think the realisation that we’re really at war has freaked him out a little bit.  _

_ I love you. I love you. I love you.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

Slughorn doesn’t like fighting in his classroom, so the natural solution is to fight very, very quietly. James has got years of experience in this arena, but he’s also been staying up until three every night with Remus for the past week, scouring old ministry case files for anything that might help them with Sirius, so he’s not really in the mood for fighting right now.

Unfortunately, Rosier and Wilkes seem to have other ideas. James dodges three jellylegs jinxes in the first half hour of the class, and after that it seems to die down a little. James praises himself for not reacting. Through the purple haze that has consumed the classroom, Lily shoots him an approving look over her cauldron. 

In the final ten minutes, however, Wilkes seems to decide to give up the ghost. James is halfway through ladling his finished iron-replenishing potion into a stoppered glass when the Slytherin mutters, from behind him, “Relashio!”

James’ hand unfurls, fingers crunching backwards, and the ladle tips over, spilling hot potion over his robes and staining them bright white in a streak. Laughter blooms through the classroom like flowers, but the man-eating type that could strangle you if they wanted. James’ face burns.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Slughorn laughs jovially, burbling his way over. “Had a little accident, have we? No trouble, no trouble at all, my boy, it appears there’s no harm done-“

James scowls over his shoulder at Wilkes.  _ I’ll get you for that one, _ he wants to say, but then he remembers Lily and his promise, and he shuts his mouth. 

“Congratulations on holding your tongue there,” Remus says mildly at the end of the lesson, as the two of them pack away their things. “If we hurry, we should be able to grab you a spare change of robes before Charms. You up for it?”

“Of course,” James says, though all he really wants to do is lie down and sleep off his headache. “Yeah, Remus. Let’s go.”

They’re halfway out the door when Rosier calls after them. 

“Bet Black would’ve fought back!”

James feels himself go very still like he isn’t fully in control of his body. Remus’ hand steadies him and he just stands there in the doorway for a second, trying to remember how to breathe.

“What did you just say?” he asks eventually, turning around and stalking back to Rosier.

His smug little face doesn’t change. “I said, I bet Black would’ve fought back. Guess he couldn’t now, could he?” He leans in close. “I heard they snapped his wand, Potter, I bet he’s pretty bloody pathetic now-“

James goes to lunge across the desk. Remus and Peter barely manage to hold him back.

“Don’t you dare talk about him!” James shouts. “Don’t you fucking dare-“

“James- James!” Remus hisses into his ear. “James, it’s not worth it. Come on, let’s just go-“

“He knows where he is! Let go of me-“

Rosier holds his hands up, grinning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Potter. Come, Wilkes, we’ve got a class to get to.”

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ Did they take your wand? Rosier knows something, he let slip in potions and I wrote as quickly as I could. He said they snapped it. Your wand, I mean. He sounded like he meant it. _

_ Who’s ‘they’?  _

_ I don’t know why I keep writing. I fucking hate this and I’m starting to forget what your stupid face looks like.  _

_ Yours always,  _

_ Prongs. _

* * *

James leads his first week of instruction at their club at the beginning of November. Most of them have some experience with duelling, but only in formal settings. He wants to fix that.

“Okay,” he says, at the beginning of their session. All eyes turn to him. “Today, we’re gonna be duelling. I’ll be leading the session-“

There are scattered laughs. James clears his throat and pushes on. He still feels mildly mediocre, but the last few weeks have been crammed with research, and he grips his new sword of knowledge like a very inexperienced, sweaty-palmed knight. 

“I’ll be leading the session,” he continues, a little too confident for how he feels. “And today, I want to teach the best techniques for duelling on the fly. Uh, holding your own in a wandfight without any warning. No bowing, no rules. How to get the upper hand and escape if you’re cornered.” 

The group looks slightly more interested at that. From the front row, Remus grins at him. 

“So.” James clears his throat. “For this session, we’re gonna be laying the groundwork for the spells we’ll be working with. There are three main jinxes I want everybody able to perform by the end of the night, even if it’s not very powerful yet.” 

Beside him, Lily flips their stolen blackboard over, revealing each incantation for the impeding, knockback and tripping jinxes:  _ impedimenta, flipendo, itinera. _

“This’ll be basic stuff for some of you,” James instructs, and wipes a sweaty hand on his trousers. “But I want you to practice anyway -- get used to casting quickly and forcefully. Like this.” He jabs his wand at Remus, hard, snapping, “Flipendo!” 

Remus goes tumbling out of his chair and half the room jumps. James burns with pride, feeling like a first year for the first time in a while. The last time he felt sure of the way people see him was when Sirius was still here. A tinge of familiar, prideful vindication lashes up inside of him. 

“Merlin, James,” Remus grunts, tugging himself back into his chair. “Got some anger to get out?” 

“Always,” James confirms gravely, and tries his best to make it sound like a joke. “So, find somebody from your year -- gender doesn’t matter, nor does build or anything like that, just somebody you’re not in an argument with or anything, someone who can take a hit from you, and try not to hold back. None of these should be lethal so long as you’re not mangling the incantations that badly. Let’s get going.” 

Everybody gets up, pushing their chairs to the back of the room and splitting off into pairs to start practicing. James slumps against the wall, mildly out of breath.

“You were good,” Lily compliments him. “Less full of yourself than usual.” 

“Thanks,” James says, though he wants to say,  _ it’s really hard to be full of myself right now, not when he’s not here to laugh at my stupid jokes, and a part of me still wants to be the best person in the room, but it doesn’t bloody matter much anymore, not when my friends are dying. _

He says none of that. Lily smiles tentatively at the ground, then partners off with Remus, leaving James to wander around giving critiques to people’s form and wrist movement, straining to remember everything from  _ The Intermediary Guide To Offensive Jinxes. _

The session passes quickly. By the end, almost everybody has got a pretty good grip on each of the jinxes, and James promises that in their next session, he’ll get onto the good stuff. 

“It’s badass, I promise,” he says, not sure he’s getting the word usage right. He heard it in one of Sirius’ favourite muggle movies last summer. The thought of it makes his heart hurt. “But that’s for next time. For now, clear off, before McGonagall finds us and murder us all.” 

The group filters out. A Ravenclaw James doesn’t know very well -- Elias something-or-other -- stops to tell him he’s glad they’re doing this. 

“After your friend disappeared, I think it hit me that this is really happening,” Elias tells him. “So… thanks. This makes it all feel a little less scary.”

“No problem.” James smiles faintly. 

“Any news on him at all?” 

“Nothing.” Remus takes the reins. “We’ve still got hope, though.” 

_ Have we? _ James wants to ask, but he manages to bite his tongue. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.” 

“Good. That’s the spirit.” Elias grins. “I didn’t know him very well, but I hope he’s alright, wherever he is.” 

Everything aches. James sort of wants to lie down and never get up. “Yeah.” 

Elias seems to realise it’s a painful subject, because he nods to each of them and then shuffles off, making himself scare as he heads west towards Ravenclaw Tower. Remus squeezes James’ arm in his hand. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

James forces a nod. “The name,” he says. “For the club. It should be… something for him.” 

“The Black Brigade?” Lily suggests from where she’s wiping down the blackboard, sarcasm laden heavy on her tongue. 

Even Remus grimaces. “He’d hate that.” 

James considers. “Something more like him. Sirius’... something.” 

“Sirius’ squad?” Remus offers. 

“That’s horrendous,” Lily says flatly. 

“Padfoot’s Regiment,” James tries, tasting the words on his tongue. “Padfoot’s…”

“Padfoot’s Army?” Remus tries. 

_ Army. _ It feels solid. Real. Like something that’ll last. Not much in the world feels like it’ll last right now. 

“Perfect,” James says. “Padfoot’s Army.” 

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ We named it after you. ‘Padfoot’s Army’, we’re calling it. The group of us who are learning to fight. Everybody seems to like it well enough. We know it’s not literally for you, it’s for all of us, but if you hadn’t gone missing, I think most of us would have kept ignoring the war until the end of school. _

_ I taught my first lesson the other day! It was amazing. I think people actually listened to me. A year ago, you would have laughed at me for doubting they would, but a lot’s changed, so… I don’t know. I’m glad they took me seriously. No pun intended.  _

_ We’re still trying. Still not giving up hope. Someday I’m gonna see you again, if it’s the last thing I do. I swear it.  _

_ Hang on for me. And for Remus. And for Peter. And for Lily.  _

_ Yours forever,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

As the Christmas holidays near, Remus finally reveals what he’s been working on. 

“It’s… it’s nothing special,” he warns. “And I’m sure they’ve got wards against forgery, so I’ve been researching spells to bypass them, but…”

He trails off. Then, he shuffles the parchment in his hands over to James carefully. 

James picks it up, forcing himself to be delicate with it. It’s pristine, expensive stuff, pure white and faintly scented. It’s already written on, but the hand looks nothing like Remus’. 

_ Dear Walburga, _

_ How long it has been since we’ve last spoken! My family offers you their sincerest well-wishes, especially in light of recent events. I won’t keep you too long, as I know that things are rather busy at the Black residence, but Narcissa was eager to get in contact; she does so miss you all, and waits in eager anticipation for our Christmas do, I’m sure, as do all of us. Your dinner parties are truly beautiful.  _

_ Communication has been rather stilted for us as of late -- not in the least due to the fact that my position at the ministry often eats up my time -- so it’s been rather difficult to ascertain the situation regarding your sons. If we can offer any support to you during these changing times, please do not hesitate to reach out. Family is of immense importance to me, as I’m sure you know, and if I can do anything to ease this stressful process, I would like to fulfil that privilege to the utmost extent.  _

_ Yours faithfully,  _

_ Lucius Abraxas Malfoy III _

“You,” James says, looking up after a long pause, “Are a maniac, Lupin. You know that, right?” 

Remus stares at him. “You don’t think it’ll work?” 

“I don’t know.” James tries very hard not to smile and fails miserably. “But it’s the best thing we’ve come up with yet. God, you genius.” 

“I’m going to take Bullet to send it,” Remus clarifies. “And he’s smart, he’ll listen if we instruct him to bring the response back to us, not to Malfoy himself. And he looks expensive, too, like a proper pureblood owl. At the very least, they shouldn’t be able to track it back to us, right?” 

James grabs his shoulders. “You’re the best person I know.” 

Remus smiles weakly. “I know.” 

“And I… I think this might work. I really do think this might work. You’ve thought it all through so much-”

Remus shrugs off the praise. “Sirius used to read me letters from his family. They were formal like that… y’know. In that weird, underhanded way where they won’t say things directly. I just did my best to copy those.” 

“And your best is amazing. Truly. You’re a genius.”

“Then let’s hope I’m genius enough to succeed.” Remus takes the letter back very gently, like it’s made of glass. “You have no idea how expensive the parchment was, by the way. I had to take out a mortgage to get it.” 

“I’ll pay you back.” 

“I was joking. I’m fine.” 

James shakes his head, grinning properly now. “I’m gonna be paying you back for the rest of my life.” 

They send off the letter that evening, by nightfall so it’ll be harder to track if anybody tries. James watches Bullet vanish into the blue midnight, stares after the tiny owl until he’s a speck against the sky. Peter’s already asleep. Remus hovers by his shoulder and watches, too. 

“Merlin, I hope this works,” James murmurs. “I hope to god it works.” 

It was Sirius’ birthday the other day. Neither of them mentioned it at the time, presumably because it feels less like it should be celebrated and more like the wake of an awkward funeral. 

Remus says it now, though. “We’ll have him back before his next birthday. I promise.” 

James snares his hand. “I hope you’re right.” 

“I’m always right.” 

“Of course.” 

They carry on watching the sky for a while. Sometimes, James thinks that’ll be how Sirius comes back -- swooping over the horizon by broom, dark hair blowing back off his face, grinning like a maniac, shoulders thrown back like a returning war hero. 

But Sirius doesn’t appear. Not then and not the next night, either, when their Padfoot’s Army meeting runs late, Lily passing around handmade leaflets of different common potions ingredients that react violently with one another, useable as flammable or explosive weapons if one is in a hurry. 

“Next week, we’re going to try brewing shelf-stable flammables,” she calls out over the milling crowd as the meeting draws to a close. “The type you can light on fire and throw. Like magical Molotov Cocktails.” 

Nobody seems to know what those are, and scattered laughter ripples through the room. James grins at Lily fiercely. A little startled, she smiles back, and then turns away to watch their attendees file out. 

When it’s just the three of them left, Remus and James sit down to tell Lily the most recent development in their plan. 

“That was stupid,” Lily says almost immediately. “Really stupid.” 

“We’re aware,” Remus sighs. “But we’re willing to do it.” 

“And if they track it back to you?” 

“They won’t-” Remus starts. 

“If they do,” James cuts in, “I’m gonna take the blame. What can they do to me? I’m fifteen.” 

“And you’re from a wealthy family,” Lily adds, vaguely derisive. 

James winces. “Right. That too. They’d, uh, be way worse to you or Remus.” 

Lily furrows her brow. “Isn’t Lupin a pureblood?” 

Remus kicks James under the table. “Blood traitors,” he tells Lily. “My family. I mean.” 

“Right.” 

Awkward silence falls for a while. Eventually, after seeming to bite her tongue for a while, Lily looks up again, scanning both of their faces. 

“If this is a thrill to you,” she says, mostly to James, “I think we should just end it now.” 

That came out of nowhere. James says as much. 

“I know.” Lily looks back down at her hands. “I was talking to Sev the other day-- I know you hate him, don’t look at me like that. He thinks you’re only doing this because playing revolutionary gives you… a thrill. A kick.” 

James scoffs. “He’s a blood purist.” 

“You can’t--” Lily cuts herself off, seeming to realise she’s not going to win this argument. “I’m not saying I believe him. I just know it wouldn’t be out of character for you, Potter. Not after all this time.” 

_ I’ve matured, _ James wants to say, but that would be a lie and he knows it.  _ I’m tired _ would be closer to the truth, but it feels a little too pathetic. 

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “A part of me likes it. Leading something. Teaching people.” 

“I thought as much.” 

“But if I don’t do anything, he’s going to die out there, and even…” James swallows and forces out the next words. “Even if he’s already dead, he’ll stay unavenged. And I can’t let that happen.” 

Lily looks him up and down. “You really care about Black, huh?”

“So much,” James admits, the words escaping like water through a dam. “So fucking much.” 

Hesitation. Then, Lily leans in close. “Then take this seriously, and we won’t lose anybody else.” She bites her lip. “Pun not intended.” 

James can’t help it; he laughs, a tiny thing. It’s nice, though. Real. 

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ Can’t say much, but we’re working harder to find you. I doubt that you ever receive any of these, but I don’t want you to feel alone, so even if it’s a tiny, tiny chance you do, I want to keep writing anyway.  _

_ Hang in there. As always, I love you. _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

It’s midnight a few days later when Bullet returns. James is awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking through the last time he saw Sirius, trying to remember what the last thing he told him was. He does this a lot. It’s a fucked-up coping mechanism, but he thinks if he tried to stop he would fall apart. 

There’s a sharp tapping on the window. A few seconds of silence pass and then Remus and James shoot out of bed in unison, staring at each other through the gloom. 

_ Awake too? _ James mouths. Remus nods. Then, they both rush for the window. 

There’s a small, white envelope tied to Bullet’s leg, pristine and sweet-smelling like the expensive parchment of before. Remus scrambles to untie it, hands shaking hard, while James casts  _ lumos _ and drags Remus onto his bed, drawing the curtains. 

“Open it,” he hisses. “Come on-” 

Remus tears the envelope open. Under the stark white light, the parchment is blinding, and for a moment James can’t make out any of the writing. Then, his eyes adjust and he shuffles around to squash himself in next to Remus. Together, they knock heads and read. 

_ Dearest Lucius, _

_ It was truly wonderful to hear from you, especially so close to the Christmas period. Send Narcissa our love; we heard from Bellatrix recently that you both begun attempting to conceive again, and if so, Orion and I are delighted to hear it. Narcissa is still young, but at seventeen, she is observably quite ready for this responsibility. I trust you are aware of her necessity to bear child, as such is our sacred duty as the hereditary representatives of the Noble and Ancient Houses, despite how they have fallen from grace as of late. _

_ Orion and I have been further pleased to hear of your success at the Ministry. Direly needed overhauls are surely safe in your capable hands. Please do wish the Minister our best. From what I understand, he admires our family greatly. _

_ Regulus has successfully integrated into Durmstrang. He finds the culture to be agreeable, and his grades, of course, are exceptional. Orion and I deeply regret not sending him sooner, but we are optimistic about the veracity of the school’s claims of disciplinary success. If anybody can beat some stomach into our only remaining son, it shall surely be the Nordic.  _

_ It is, of course, at the Dark Lord’s discretion how much we share of the situation with our recently disinherited. From what we know, He is still keeping the little stain under His thumb. This is perhaps inappropriate to share beyond immediate family, but if you must know, the last time I saw the boy, it appeared that the Dark Lord has been successful in subduing his arduous spirit -- by our own relative experience, of course, as thorough training of the morally incapacitated could surely only be achieved by such a remarkable figurehead of Pureblood liberation, such a magnificent symbol of the strength of Pure Magic. _

_ I have shared far too much, forgive me. I suppose I simply wish to impress on you the importance of a strong-minded, ethically sound heir, which is, by my understanding, best achieved when the mother is youngest and most fertile. Or perhaps I am merely superstitious. It is in my nature, after all, to remain traditional in all that I do.  _

_ By all means, keep up your fantastic work at the Ministry. You have our full support in your valiant effort to purge the magical world of treachery. And hear me when I say this: we shall win. _

_ Yours faithfully,  _

_ Walburga Irma Black _

By the end of the letter, James is trembling with anger. Not really in control of his body anymore, he shoves himself back against the headboard, curling his arms around his stomach, and tries to remember how to breathe right. 

Beside him, Remus is in a similar state, rigid and shaking as he scans the letter over and over and over again. They sit in silence like that for a while, neither able to speak, quiet nighttime spearing the air. 

“He’s got him,” James breathes, when he’s able to speak again. “You-know-who. He’s got Sirius.” 

James is still in his pyjamas as he sprints through the halls, past multiple startled portraits and one surprised teacher on patrol. He bounds up multiple flights of stairs and over a high outcropping that overlooks the east wing, flying through the darkness like the devil is on his heels. The devil, in this instance, is only Remus, who barely keeps up, panting and pale, but urges James on every time he starts to slow. 

By the time they make it to the gargoyle outside of the headmaster’s office, they’re both out of breath. “Please,” James gasps. “Bit of an emergency.” 

“I don’t open for emergencies,” the gargoyle tells him cheekily. 

Remus shoves him aside. “Peppermint toads,” he says to the gargoyle sternly. 

The gargoyle glares, then lets them pass. 

“Lucky guess,” Remus stays, by way of explanation. “Come on.” He tugs James up the stairs. 

Dumbledore is still awake, evidently, despite the late hour. Behind his desk, he looks surprisingly pale by the candlelight, and when Remus and James burst in, he stares at them for a moment before sighing very heavily. 

“Come in,” he says simply. “I suppose we must have this conversation eventually. Like most things that we are unprepared for, it has arrived far too soon.” 

James and Remus exchange long looks. Together, they sit down on the other side of Dumbledore’s desk. The headmaster’s chairs are surprisingly soft, cushioned in bright green velvet. 

Dumbledore clears his throat, putting down his quill. “I suppose you’re here to discuss young Sirius Black’s absence?” 

“Like last time, sir,” James says. “But we know more now. And you have to listen this time.” 

He expects Dumbledore to laugh at him for that, but the man just nods good-naturedly. “As I will, Mr. Potter. However, I think I must be transparent with you in saying that -- and you may be disappointed with me to hear this -- I am already aware of Mr. Black’s current situation.” 

James feels himself stiffen. “You are?”

Dumbledore sighs heavily. “Yes, Mr. Potter. I’m afraid I’ve been aware since Mr. Black was first taken into Lord Voldemort’s captivity in June.” 

Shock-horror, cold and thick like a cracked egg, trickles down James’ back. He stares off at nothing, stunned. He can’t find anything to say. Apparently neither can Remus, because they both sit in a silence that feels almost obedient as Dumbledore pushes on. 

“You see, Mr. Potter, Mr. Lupin, it was to me that young Sirius turned when he felt he had attained knowledge of one of Lord Voldemort’s great weaknesses. In fact, I might say, his single greatest.” Dumbledore, apparently having determined that his ink has dried, files his parchment away in his desk, slow and methodical. The candle flickers and the walls ripple with light. “You see, Sirius Black is nothing if not perceptive. I mightn’t presume, but it appears his upbringing has made this a necessity. When he discovered something he felt might aid the war effort, he attempted to bring it to my attention.” 

“And?” James demands. 

Dumbledore fixes him with a piercing blue stare. “He returned to the school three days after the end of the term. He found me and told me everything he knew. Immediately, I knew that he had stumbled on something… something quite spectacular. And quite foolishly, I might say, I allowed him to return home.” 

It hits like a slap in the face. “You knew he was captured. You knew. And you didn’t do anything. You didn’t tell us.” James slams a fist down on top of the desk. “You didn’t tell us! You left him there to die-” 

Dumbledore holds up a hand. “A group of very powerful wizards in my employ, Mr. Potter, work under me in their attempt to stall the Dark Lord’s ascension. They, too, were quite concerned to learn of Sirius’ captivity. We have attempted to return him…” Dumbledore seems to count. “Half a dozen times, now, I believe.” 

“And?!” James demands again. 

“And each time, I am deeply ashamed to inform you, we have failed.” 

Remus is shaking his head slowly. “It doesn’t make sense,” he murmurs. “If he knows something you-know-who doesn’t want getting out…?” 

“Why has he not killed Mr. Black?” Ignoring James’ flinch, Dumbledore considers Remus for a moment. “An admirably level-headed question.” 

“Yeah, I’ve sort of had to be level-headed, sir. My best friend is missing.” 

“Point taken.” Dumbledore stands, crossing the room to the window. Silhouetted against the night sky, outlined in the stars, he might as well be an omen of death. “We believe he has yet to kill Mr. Black for risk of… contamination. When a wizard is killed, particularly in a violent manner, there is always the risk of their return as a ghost, and in that instance, Mr. Black would have access to his pre-death memories. If, by a variety of causes, the Dark Lord’s wand was to be forced to present its  _ priori incantatem, _ even dead, Sirius would live to tell the tale, despite how briefly.” Dumbledore’s eyes glaze over for a moment. ”There are other methods of conversing with the dead, and the Dark Lord, I suspect, finds himself quite fascinated by them.”

“Then why not obliviate him?” Remus asks. 

“Memory alterations are, regrettably, imperfect. A strong legillemens could plausibly break them. And there is only one legillemens, by my knowledge, more powerful than the Dark Lord.” 

Remus inhales sharply. “You, sir.” 

Dumbledore nods. “Indeed.” 

“There are other ways.” Remus stands up and starts to pace. James is about an inch from hyperventilating by this point --  _ dark bruise on the back of his neck; the smile Sirius shot him as he got off the train last year; that blueish-white, blotchy curse scar Sirius always said looked like a cloud on his knee; whispers in the Ministry about torture and prisoners of war and brutality; the taste of bile rising and rising in the back of his throat  _ \-- and he wants to grab Remus and shake him, hard, and ask him how in Merlin’s name he’s even functional right now. 

“Indeed,” Dumbledore repeats again, in that infuriatingly calm way of his. 

“Torture.” Remus pauses, then keeps pacing. “They could torture him until he… until he cracked, sir. Then, even if you could get to blocked memories, they would be unreadable. Or he could-” Remus’ voice shakes. “He could torture Sirius until Sirius cracked, sir, and then kill him, so his ghost couldn’t share.” 

“Perhaps.” Dumbledore seems to consider that, nodding. “And perhaps if it had been you, Mr. Lupin, who had discovered his secret, he might have resorted to such brutality.” 

“But Sirius is a human pureblood from a Noble and Ancient family,” Remus puts in fluidly. 

“If my approximation is correct, it appears that Lord Voldemort is predisposed to find the needless brutalisation of Pure minds... tasteless, yes,” Dumbledore agrees. “I don’t doubt he might be willing to torture the body of a Pureblood, but the mind… in Blood politics, it is quite a distinction to make.”

James leans over and vomits on the floor. Remus rushes over to rub his back. He wants to throw punches, wants to break something. All he can do is curl up in Dumbledore’s soft, green chair and retch. 

“You’re okay,” Remus whispers into his hair, hugging him very tight around the shoulders as he waves his wand to clean up the throw-up. “You’re alright. I promise.” 

“How can you be so  _ calm?!” _ James explodes, and Remus flinches even though it’s directed at the headmaster. “My best friend is a captive of you-know-who and all you can do is sit here and theorise about how best he could kill him?!” 

Dumbledore hesitates. “I’ve disappointed you, Mr. Potter. I understand that quite well. I would only offer in explanation that…” He trails off, then continues. “That if Sirius Black’s information was less important than it is, he would already be dead. There is still hope. That’s why we’re discussing this.” 

“Then why aren’t we trying harder?” James spits. “Why aren’t we sending more people, telling the ministry, telling  _ anyone?!” _

“Because it’s… James, it’s leverage,” Remus says into his ear softly. “That Dumbledore has this over you-know-who.” 

“This isn’t  _ politics,  _ this is life or death!” 

Dumbledore inclines his head slightly. “Which is, one might argue, what makes it especially political, Mr. Potter.”

James stares at him. “You’ve been trying to get him back, then?” 

“Yes. Persistently.” 

“Well, you haven’t been trying hard enough,” he snaps. “You-know-who is probably bloody torturing him, or--” He hears his own voice tremour. “Or hurting him. Or something else awful.” 

Dumbledore nods wearily. He looks older than his years in that moment. “And it pains me every day to think of Sirius in that situation, it does. I fear it is both a blessing and a curse that, had he had a different upbringing, he might not have made it this long. It’s strange, isn’t it? The unequal dissemination of suffering.” 

James’ heart throbs in his chest. “I just want to see him again, sir.” 

“I know.” Dumbledore’s face softens like mould. “And I can only apologise, Mr. Potter, for how you and your friends have undoubtedly suffered.” 

“An apology isn’t good enough.” 

“I know,” Dumbledore says simply. “I know.” 

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ Not sending these anymore. I know you won’t get them. I’m gonna keep writing, though, and save them for when I see you again.  _

_ We found out what happened to you. Remus is a genius, truly, and we went and confronted Dumbledore about it and he confirmed our fears. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the way I did that night before. Like I wanted to.. Break something. I don’t know. Hurt someone. Throw something. Punch a wall. I don’t have a temper -- I’m not like you -- but I might as well have had one. I don’t like who I was at that moment. But I still feel like shit now, anyway, but instead of angry I’m just sad again, which is sort of worse, so that’s that, I suppose. _

_ In my head it’s red like a nightmare. You’re chained up in some basement cellar somewhere and nobody’s there to rescue you, and you’re all bloody like a prisoner of war. I have nightmares about it. Remus has told me it’s stupid to think like that, because you-know-who has no reason to put you through the wringer, but I can’t get the image out of my head. Dark bruise on the back of your neck. I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I’m trying but I just can’t.  _

_ Remus is worried I’m getting sick. He keeps saying I should talk to a mind-healer, keeps trying to diagnose me with muggle illnesses that are all these letters he doesn’t ever spell out (something beginning with a ‘p’, I can’t remember, full of consonants and scary in that medical way some words can be) and I just sort of let him do it, because I think fussing over me is the one thing keeping him from going completely fucking manic, if I’m honest with you.  _

_ Peter doesn’t talk to us much right now. He gets nightmares, too -- he’s shit at silencing charms and they always fall the moment he goes to sleep so I hear it all. I’d like to say it’s because he’s worried about you, mate, but I don’t know. He worries about everything. He doesn’t come to Padfoot’s Army meetings. I wonder sometimes where he goes at those times.  _

_ There’s so many things I want to say and I don’t think any of them are worthy? If that makes sense? I don’t know. Every moment of every day it’s like, oh, he would want to hear about that. He’d like to know about this. He’d laugh if I told him about that other thing. And then I sit down to write you a letter and it all clots like a nosebleed.  _

_ I love you. I’m gonna try to write more often. If we find you next week, it’ll be bloody awkward to give you just one letter to read, won’t it? Sort of defeats the object.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs. _

* * *

Eventually, school lets out for the winter holidays. Most students go home. More go home every year since the war started. Some students never come back, parents too anxious to let them out of their sight. 

James remains, Remus too. They spend most of their time huddled on the sofa in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, scouring the papers for any hint at you-know-who’s location. It’s an exercise in misery, because even if they were to track him down tomorrow, they still wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, but they still try, probably to grasp at some semblance of control. 

The castle goes quiet and cold over the winter period. They’re two of the only Gryffindors who stay behind. Sirius used to stay most years, and he loved Christmas, loved the excuse to lavish increasingly ridiculous gifts on his friends like a git. Without him, and without Peter, and without most of the rest of the castle, it feels hollow and grey like an old picture. A parody of what it’s meant to be this time of year. James isn’t religious in the slightest, but he thinks that surely Christmas is supposed to feel holy, not cursed. 

“You need to stop torturing yourself like this,” Remus tells him on Christmas Eve. It’s probably Christmas Day by the time he finds him, actually -- James, after another nightmare, shuffles down into the common room to bundle himself into a blanket and stare into the dying embers of the fire, and Remus, as he always does, follows him there. 

James shrugs from within his tight little cocoon. “I can’t help it. The nightmares.” 

“I know.” Remus stares at him, hovering like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to sit down. “I know you can’t.” 

James shuffles over. Remus comes to sit beside him and they share the blanket.

For a while they just watch the fire. Snow is piling up against the glass of the window and Christmas morning has brought thick, cloudy skies that look like they’ll drain away the ice with rain by the time dawn arrives. Midwinter feels cruel in that way. Even when there are beautiful moments, they melt and die too quickly. The nights are too long for comfort. Everything feels too long for comfort, actually. The world is composed of waiting and waiting and nothing much else. 

Remus lays his head tentatively on James’ shoulder. He’s not a particularly touchy person usually. Perhaps tonight is the exception. Rules are made to be broken, but James wonders if they’ll be able to put this one back together. 

“I wonder if he knows it’s Christmas,” Remus murmurs. His eyes are blind by the light of the fire, glazed white. 

“I’m sure he does,” James says, though he’s not sure, he’s not sure of anything. “Bet he’s thinking of all the stupid things he’s gonna get us next year. When we’re all back together again.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Though it’ll be harder for him to go crazy with it, not if he doesn’t have access to his family’s money.” 

Remus laughs croakily. “He’ll land softly. I’m sure your family would buy him a house if he asked nicely enough.” 

“They’re worried, too,” James agrees. 

“I haven’t told my folks yet.” 

“No?” 

Remus shakes his head. “They worry enough about me. I don’t wanna… make them fret. Y’know. They don’t deserve that.” 

James leans over and kisses him. Remus seems to expect it, which isn’t much of a surprise. He’s smart like that, smart enough to know when something is breaking. 

It’s short and soft, less like a kiss than it’s like a house fire. When they break apart, it’s a little wet. 

“Sorry,” James murmurs. “Didn’t mean to do that.” 

“It’s okay.” Remus shuffles down to rest his head on James’ shoulder again. “I don’t mind.” 

“You liked it?” 

“Yeah.” 

James smiles faintly. “It’s not the same. Not without him.” 

Remus hesitates. “Then we’d better get on finding him.” 

That’s about as close to a confession as either of them is going to get. James nods. Christmas Morning dawns like a plague, and they fall asleep there, and they sleep all the way through breakfast and lunch, and it’s nice, James thinks, to be able to rest for once. 


	2. Chapter 2

_ Pads, _

_ Everybody came back from the winter holidays yesterday. Peter’s not here. He sent a letter. Apparently, his mother’s going to keep him home for the rest of the year. She’s worried about him, with him being halfblood and -- how did you used to put it? Two-thirds squib? -- and all that. I can tell he absolutely hates it, and he said as much, but I think he’s probably a bit relieved, too. Every day, it feels more like we’re on the cusp of something big and ugly. Especially because everybody knows that Dumbledore is His biggest enemy, and if the fighting’s going to start anywhere, it’s gonna start here.  _

_ I shouldn’t capitalise that. The ‘he’, I mean. Makes him feel too stupid powerful. Your mother did it, in the letter we swindled out of her. That was nuts, looking back on it, totally and utterly nuts. I guess we should be thankful we’ve desensitised Remus to taking risks, because if you told first-year-Moony that he would spend weeks of his fifth year forging a letter to deceive a pureblood matriarch into giving up information on the dealings of a Dark Lord, I think he would laugh you out of the room. Or piss himself.  _

_ It’s quiet in the dorm. Remus and I spend a lot of time with each other, but we can only stick together for so much of the day before we can’t stand the sight of one another, so we ration our time, sort of. He spends a lot of time with Lily (and I’m not even jealous! You should be vastly, eminently proud of me) and I spend a lot of time in the library, of all places. Between trying to track you-know-who and researching stuff to teach at Padfoot’s Army, and OWLs and everything, I’m flat-out with work most of the time, which sucks, but what else am I gonna spend my time on?  _

_ Especially since I’ve sworn off fighting with Sniv. Yeah, I know. But I promised Lily I’d try to be better, and a part of me actually wants to. I think if you showed up tomorrow and asked me to mess with him, I’d say yes, though. But that’s looking less and less likely, and the more I imagine you coming back, the less I think things can ever go back to normal. Not after more than six months. Not with that big, important thing Dumbledore says you know.  _

_ I’ve been trying to figure out what it is. That thing. Maybe if more people know, and his secret spreads, he’ll let you go. Wishful thinking, isn’t it? But I can’t help imagining it.  _

_ Moons suck now, by the way. Without you. You were always best at dealing with the wolf when it shows up, and managing it on my own leaves me about as achy and bashed-up as Remus some months. He feels very bad about it. I do my best not to make a big deal of it.  _

_ I’m rambling. I love you. Remember we’re thinking of you. And one of these days I’m gonna come get you out myself if I have to.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

February arrives bitter and still. The month is mostly consumed by a particularly nasty Transfiguration thesis, which James had originally intended to collaborate with Peter on and now has to do alone. As schoolwork begins to pile on, their Padfoot’s Army meetings get sparser and sparser. 

“We’ll be back to a normal schedule by spring,” Lily promises a handful of fourth-years, after they miss a whole week for the first time. “I promise. It’s just, it’s OWL year, and…” She trails off. 

James shuffles over to back her up. They’re clustered into a hallway near Flitwick’s office. “I’m working on some new duelling techniques to teach,” he promises. “It’s gonna be great.” 

The fourth-years exchange glances, but they seem to accept that, dispersing off towards the north end of the castle. Lily and James exchange faint, awkward smiles. 

“How’s your thesis coming along?” James asks, just to be able to say something. 

Lily clears her throat. “Yeah, pretty well, I think.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “It’s… it’s a lot, with everything going on. Sometimes I wonder if the professors are aware that times like this are hard. For lots of us. Not in the least, people who are suffering directly because of the war.” 

James has been thinking the same thing. Maybe it’s an exercise in empathy to take his fear and anger about Sirius’ disappearance and extend it to the castle’s muggleborn populace. He’s been doing his best to do it. “I wish they were more considerate, sometimes,” he agrees. Then, because gallows humour is the tone of the hour, “I can’t juggle Padfoot’s Army, schoolwork  _ and _ letter-writing to Sirius, I’ll bloody explode.” 

Lily laughs and then seems to realise what he’s said, cutting herself off. “You still write letters to him?” 

“All the time,” James nods. “I don’t send them anymore. I know they won’t reach him.”

Lily chews her lip. “I figured they wouldn’t,” she agrees. 

“But it’s nice to keep writing. I’m gonna keep them in a box and give it to him when we find him. If we find him.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Makes it feel like he’s still there.” 

“I worry, sometimes,” Lily says, stilted, “That I’m going to lose somebody to this war.” 

That’s not what James expected out of her. He sits down against the wall and she sits beside him, both their legs stretched out on the stone in front of them. 

“You are?” James asks, after a brief stretch of quiet. 

“Yeah.” Lily furls and unfurls her fingers around the strap of her bookbag. “I think that’s why it’s hard to make friends. Apart from my background, of course. Because pureblood girls won’t be seen with you, not when you’re a bookish muggleborn who isn’t tomboyish enough to laugh at or feminine enough to gossip about. And boys won’t be friends with you, because you’re a girl who won’t date them but doesn’t care about their sports, either, and you’re too emotional when you care about your rights and not emotional enough when they try to get in your pants and you shoot them down.” 

James’ stomach twists with guilt. “I see.” 

She sighs. “And you make connections, sometimes. With other muggleborns and the like. Mary Macdonald and stuff, people who have lived the same life as you. But it’s… it’s hard to get past the fear, I guess. That even if the death eaters don’t kill you, they might kill the people like you, and then you will have lost somebody, and isn’t it better to have never had them in the first place?” 

James doesn’t know what to say to that.  _ I don’t regret that I met him, not at all,  _ or,  _ I didn’t think about any of that for a moment, I’m sorry,  _ or,  _ god I was a shithead, and I worry I still am, how do I stop? _

Instead of any of that, nothing comes out. 

Eventually, Lily shuffles her knees up to her chest, looking forlornly across the corridor, and continues on, “I don’t think people want to talk about how shit it is sometimes, James.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You should be.” She shrugs. “When Black disappeared, I didn’t want to believe it. In my head, it would never be somebody like him. But I think I’ve been thinking about it differently lately.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” She stands up, looking down at James with hard, sad eyes. “He didn’t get hurt  _ because _ of what he was, but in spite of it. So in a way, it sort of makes it all worse. Because if they’d do that to him, what would they do to me?” 

She leaves James sitting there, watching after her as she disappears off down the hallway to her next class. He feels sort of like a piece of dirt, or one of those great ugly spiders that people don’t bother trying to put outside when they see them, because getting close probably isn’t a good idea. His stomach churns with nausea. There’s the impulse to get angry there, a little. But it’s mostly sadness. 

(At the next Padfoot’s Army meeting, Remus takes the session. “Today,” he says, with a hollow sort of look on his face like he’s facing down the pyre, “We’re going to learn about Dark creatures and how best to defend against them. I think I know someplace in the castle where I can find a boggart, so that’ll be the next session I take, sometime in March, but this week, we’re gonna be looking over the theory on… on half-breeds and the like. So, if everybody could gather around the table in the centre…”

James wants to stop him, but he’s a coward, so he says nothing that night as Remus teaches, as he talks about his species like he’s a monstrosity, nods and abides as people speculate on how vicious the nature of the Wolf can be. Says nothing as they both fold themselves into bed at midnight. Says nothing at all.)

As it has a habit of doing, life crawls on. The disappearances ramp up as spring blooms through the grounds. James and Remus and Lily forge a ritual -- every week, for a few hours, they lie on the rocks by the lake, bluebells pushing up through the stone around them, and they spread copies of all editions of all the wizarding papers they can find from the week out in front of them. Seven copies of the Prophet. Two editions of some new upstart, the Quibbler. A few more obscure spreads. It eats away at his time. James’ parents write to him and he doesn’t write back. 

Then, like it’ll do anything, they hunt for him through the pages. Scour for the locations of his killings. Note down the towns each of his victims died in. Their names. Their ages. 

“He’s moving south,” Remus determines, on the first Sunday of March. The afternoon sun has flushed his face slightly. “We can be sure of that.”

James shakes his head. “I’d still say we have to keep our eyes on Greater Birmingham. Those big, old money estates a few miles out of the city. It’s been, what, six muggles killed in that city now? And we know the Rosiers live out there, on private land. Maybe he’s camped out there, in their house. That’s his base.” 

“It would be stupid for him to have a base,” Remus argues. “Not when he needs to constantly stay on the move to expand to Europe. We know for sure he’s been recruiting in Norway and Sweden, right? There’s no way he’s sleeping in some estate house in Northern England.” 

Lily’s shaking her head. “No,” she says. “No, I think… I think you’re both looking at this wrong.” 

“Oh?” James asks. 

She nods. “I think asking where he is might not help. We should ask  _ why  _ he’s moving as he is.” 

James shrugs. “He’s a bloody lunatic, isn’t it? He’d kill muggles anywhere. On the moon, if they happened to be there.” 

Lily flinches sharply. 

“Sorry.” 

She shakes off the apology. “It’s fine.” She takes a shaky breath and pushes on. “I agree. But it’s not just muggles he’s killing, is it? He might be a bigot, and a violent, genocidal, fascist bigot at that, but he’s a politician, if you look at it that way. He needs to garner public approval. And more than that, he needs to eliminate viable alternatives.” 

James hesitates, then shakes his head. “That’s assuming he won’t try to rule by force. Y’know. Violent takeover.” 

Lily laughs in a tight, hollow voice. “That’s not how dictatorships start. You don’t win over the electorate by abolishing it. You win it over by cutting out the bits of it that oppose you, and leaving the rest without an alternative. And eventually, your populace is split into people who like you and people who can’t tell you that they don’t.” 

“In English?” 

She hesitates. “At the end of all this, he’s still going to need a wizarding Britain to rule over. If he tried to kill every person who disagreed with him, or every person he didn’t like, there would be nothing left by the winning of the war but the Noble and Ancients. He’s not killing people who might fight back. He’s taking away people’s  _ ability _ to fight back, if they’re like me, through intimidation and violence; and if they know they’re safe -- if they’re Purebloods, if they’re of magical heritage, if they’re white and British-born and willing to stay in their lane -- he’s taking away their will.” 

* * *

_ Pads,  _

_ I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.  _

_ Can’t get up the energy to write more today. That’s sort of the worst part.  _

_ I love you,  _

_ Prongs. _

* * *

In their second year, they found a boggart in a cupboard in the dungeons, deep down the winding passageways to the underside of the lake. It was the four of them then, and James remembers it well, remembers how Sirius flung open the rattling wardrobe and his mother stepped out. 

James shoved him out of the way almost immediately, and Sirius’ mother blinked at him for a moment, the boggart confused as to the colour of his soul, before morphing and twisting into a tall, pale lady -- a stranger with hollow eyes and a translucent face like something from a horror movie. 

“A ghost, James?!” Sirius demanded, in a strangled voice. 

“More like a demon!” James yelled back, pushing Sirius firmly behind himself. “Riddikulus!” 

The woman’s long, tattered dress got tangled around her legs and she staggered back into the cupboard. James slammed the door closed behind her. All four boys stood there for a moment, staring at each other, breathing heavily, eyes darting. 

“That was definitely a ghost,” Remus commented into the silence. “Like the one from  _ The Ring.” _

It’s one of James’ fondest memories to look back on, and not just because he felt sort of like a hero that day, but because Sirius had seemed to really start to trust him after that. It had made the connection between them go beyond Quidditch and pranks, meandering into something more whole. 

Now, facing down a rattling cupboard, Remus looks far less certain of himself than Sirius did that day. But he’s got the whole of Padfoot’s Army behind him, and he seems to know he can’t avoid seeing the colour of his own soul for much longer, because he sighs heavily and, with a flick of his wand, unlocks the door. 

The rattling halts. For a moment, James thinks nothing is going to come out. Then, something thumps against the door and it swings open a little. 

The heavy thing flops onto the floor. Gasps scatter through the room like pops of electricity. Whatever it is, it’s bloody. 

And then he already knows, deep down, what Remus’ boggart has become. 

Remus takes a hesitant step forward. “Riddikulus,” he says, but it’s half-hearted. The boggart doesn’t move. 

The door swings open a little more and the body flops the rest of the way out onto the floor. There it lies still. 

Transfixed, Remus lowers his wand and crosses the room. He nudges the thing over with his foot and then goes staggering backwards, heaving, as Sirius’ grey, dead face swings around to the ceiling, as his dark head lolls against the stone floor.  _ Rigor mortis _ has already taken the corpse (it’s a boggart, James tries to tell himself furiously, just a boggart, just a fucking boggart) and it’s stiff and cold. 

Without thinking, just like they’re second-years again, James grabs Remus and shoves him behind him. The boggart twitches but doesn’t change form. 

“Riddikulus,” James tells it firmly. “Riddikulus.” 

On the second try, Sirius’ body morphs and twists and then, standing before them all is Slughorn in a clown outfit, face painted and all. 

Uncomfortable laughter spreads through the room. Everybody’s staring. Behind James, Remus is stiff as a board and twice as brittle. 

“Okay!” James raises his voice to shout. “Form a line and go one-by-one.” 

Lily has already taken the reins. “Come on, it won’t hurt you,” she’s already calling to the next person. James feels her eyes burn into his back. 

He shuffles Remus out of the door and they slide down the wall together outside. It’s dark out now, curfew soon to arrive, and in the dim light, Remus’ face is wet. He’s not shaking, though. It’s not fear, this feeling, James agrees. Just grief.

“It looked so real,” Remus says, voice raw. “He looked-” 

“It,” James corrects. He drops an arm around Remus’ shoulders. “You’re okay. It wasn’t him.” 

“I thought it would be the moon.” 

James had thought it might be, too. “Did you see mine?” 

“No.” 

“It was him, too. The same way.” 

Remus stills. Then, he laughs, a strangled sort of sound. “I thought it would still be that stupid horror movie ghost.” 

James laughs, too. He wipes his wet face. “Look at us. He would love this, to see us getting all… all upset.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Would give him his kicks.”

Remus nods, trying to chuckle. It comes out sort of like a simulacrum. “Kiss me?” he asks, less a request and more a plea. 

James obliges. A chunk of both of them is missing, though, and it just tastes like ash. 

* * *

_ Pads,  _

_ Wish we could do a sonar tracking thing. Soner? Sonor? I heard it on a muggle radio show last summer and it sounded so cool. Like ping ping ping and then when it bounces back you can see what’s in front of you. It’d be so cool if we could search for you that way. Map out all of Britain in front of us and then figure out where the terrain changes and shows you’re there.  _

_ It’s almost April now, and Remus, Lily and I are spending more and more time trying to track you-know-who. The papers are shit at reporting on it, but we hunted down an obscure pureblood publication the other day (It’s called ‘Le Nouveau Monde’, have you heard of it?) and pooled our money to buy a subscription. It’s gross stuff, awful stuff, and we always burn it once we’re done with it, but it’s a lot more open about his movements than other places, presumably because it’s funded by death eaters and couldn’t possibly spread inaccurate information about how many muggleborns he’s killed this week, lest the Noble and Ancients file a complaint with the ethics board.  _

_ We think we’ve narrowed down a few of his frequently visited locations. I don’t think he’s got one singular base he stays at, so he’s probably left you with one of his cronies, right? Hey, at least the food should be top-notch. With how some of the house elves of these old families cook, you’d swear they sold their labour to pay off culinary school debt, not for honor or servitude or whatever else they spout. So hopefully you’re being kept in a lifestyle to which you can become accustomed.  _

_ It’s hard to figure out how to talk about you. Lily talks about you like you’re dead, like we’re trying to find you so we can avenge you. Remus talks about you like you’ll be home by next week. I hover somewhere in the middle, because I hope to god we’ll find you, but even if we do, I don’t think either of us is gonna be the same.  _

_ Keep your chin up, Sirius. We’re coming.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

As OWL work ramps up, James finds himself sleeping less and less. Remus warns him he’s going to run himself off his feet but he doesn’t care. He can hold on until the summer. He can hold on until the summer. So long as he keeps clinging on, he can make it through this awful year.

By mid-April, between research about you-know-who, nightmares about Sirius, OWL revision, Padfoot’s Army training and everything else has gotten him down to sleeping two or three hours a night, if that. James’ parents write to him and he doesn’t write back. Lily seems to think he’s being very, very stupid, even though she does the exact same thing. 

She shrugs him off when he points that out. “If I don’t excel at these, I won’t be able to make a living. Your family could buy a troll a ministry position if they wanted to.” 

_ Not with the way things are going,  _ James wants to say, but he remembers, empathy, empathy, empathy, and so he bites his tongue. 

Remus is better at managing his time. James catches him writing a letter of his own late one night, after he comes back from the library. 

“I do them too,” he says, when Remus tries to tuck it away hurriedly. “Letters to him, I mean.” 

“Oh.” Remus shrugs. “Good. Gives him lots to catch up on when we give them to him.” 

The OWL exams are in late May. As they draw closer, April slipping by in a hot daze, James realises he sees little of Dumbledore at the staff table, little of him anywhere. 

“Maybe we should pay attention to that,” he tells Lily, as he catches her in the hallway on her way to arithmancy. “Y’know, he told us he’s got this group of powerful wizards working for him, undermining you-know-who, some sort of activist group, revolutionaries-- maybe that’ll help us track his movements--” 

Lily gives him a strained smile. “Can we talk about this another time? I’m late.” 

James holds himself back. “Right. Sorry.” 

She sweeps past him and away down the hall. He stews in worry for the rest of the day. 

It’s strange, though, what the solidarity of it all does to Gryffindor. At first, when Sirius didn’t reappear for the year, James knew a few people thought the worst -- the other type of worst, the bad type. The type where Sirius left school to follow his family’s wishes, to be educated in some Dark place by some Dark wizard. The type where this was willful. 

But now, especially with Padfoot’s Army, people seem to have made a martyr of him. James sees mourning in people’s faces when his name is mentioned, but more than that, anger. Fear. Indignance at the falling of a comrade. 

“His family was awful to him, weren’t they?” a seventh-year demands of James one evening, in a cluster of other sixth and seventh-years. 

“Uh,” James says, because he doesn’t really feel like digging up his friend’s dead and buried secrets and holding them up before a jury. “I don’t really know. I guess.” 

“We thought as much.” The seventh-year, Benjy something-or-other, clenches his jaw. “Bastards. It won’t happen to anybody else, I can tell you that.” 

“Yeah?” James asks, hopefully. 

Benjy nods. He pulls James down into the little cluster. “You’re not the only one doing some, uh, direct action. Me and a few of the prefects, we thought we’d set up a system to keep an eye on the younger kids. Especially newer first years. Y’know, make sure their families aren’t… Dark or something. Or hurting them.” He glances around furtively. “We want to start with Gryffindors and then try to coordinate something with the other prefects.” 

James nods, feeling a little faint. “That sounds amazing,” he says. 

“We’re hoping it’ll help,” offers a sixth-year prefect. She offers James a tight smile. “We’re tired of watching students grow up into death eaters. Black was the last straw.” 

Feeling very tired, James looks down at the table. “Do you think you’ll be able to do any good in Slytherin?” 

Benjy winces. “Maybe. We don’t get on with any of their prefects, but… we’re going to try.”

“Right.” James hesitates, then looks up. “Why is it always them? That grow up into fascists, I mean.” 

The group glance around at one another. 

“He’s right,” Lily says, materialising next to James and sitting down in the empty seat at his side. He only jumps a little. “I’ve been wondering about that, too. I mean, bigotry isn’t a personality type. It’s not something that just… happens because you’ve got a certain set of traits.” Her face closes off. “It’s upbringing, it’s class, it’s parentage, it’s… lots of stuff.”

One of the seventh-year prefects, a girl James knows with the surname ‘Morris’, speaks up. “I’d agree with you on that, but the hat… the hat doesn’t just sort on personality, right? It sorts you based on what you want. Didn’t it let you have a say?” 

James expects Lily to say something like,  _ yes, it wanted to put me in Ravenclaw but I chose Gryffindor.  _ She shakes her head instead. “No, it… it chose very quick for me. I didn’t even really get to say anything.” 

“Right. Well, for most of us, it takes our preference into account. And it’s not really about personality, then, is it? It’s about the kids of blood traitors choosing Gryffindor, and the kids of Noble and Ancients, of purebloods, choosing Slytherin, and that’s why there are so many more muggleborns in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, because there’s way more smart and kind people in the world than exceptionally brave and eminently mean people, right? It’s not an even distribution of traits, so a lot of the time, the traits for Gryffindor and Slytherin aren’t really about personality-” 

“They’re about social pressure,” Lily finishes, like something quite horrible is dawning on her. “Oh, that’s awful.” 

Morris shrugs. “For some people. For others, it’s reassuring. Means I don’t think I’ll have to put up with a hate crime in the common room. Being here as a muggleborn feels safe, doesn’t it?” 

Lily bites her lip like she wants to say she’s never felt safe at all. Instead, she says, “Yeah.”

It makes enough sense that James feels like an idiot for not having noticed it before. “All the more reason to try to reach out to Slytherin kids,” he says eventually. “I mean, even if they’re rotten, bigotted little assholes. They don’t deserve to grow up into… that.”

Benjy nods, looking thoughtful. “Yeah.” He looks across at James. “You’ve grown up quite a bit, haven’t you?” 

James is barely sixteen and most of the time he still feels like a kid. Still, he nods. “I guess. I’m trying to be a good person.” 

It sounds stupid and plaintive, but Lily shoots him an appreciative look over her shoulder. The little cluster seems to appreciate that, too. “Good man,” Benjy says amicably. “Good to hear.” 

“Just sucks that this happening was what triggered it,” James finishes lamely. “I think I’d be the same if he hadn’t vanished.” 

“You gotta give yourself more credit,” Benjy opposes. “We all have to grow up eventually. It would’ve happened regardless. Just sucks it’s been forced on you so quick, huh?” 

James nods. He still feels sick in that thick, chronic way that makes every moment feel like wading through thick syrup, but his head is a little clearer after the talk. 

“If I can to anything to help with the plan you guys have,” he offers, “Just let me know.” 

“So long as you let us know if we can help with Padfoot’s Army,” Morris agrees, grinning. “A real solid idea, that was. For keeping people calm.” 

James smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s been good.” 

There’s a faint cough behind him. Remus’ hand lands on his shoulder. “Didn’t we say we were going to the library?” 

“Oh, yeah,” James gasps. “I’ll tell you about everything when we get there, come on-” 

The two of them grab their stuff and rush off together. James feels lighter. 

* * *

_ Pads,  _

_ OWLs suck!!!!!! You’re actually super lucky not to be here, because god, it’s awful. See, now I’m guilty for saying that because what if you’re properly suffering, like, it’s really really awful, and you read this and think I’m a right prick? On second thought, I don’t care if you think I’m a right prick.  _

_ I sort of do, actually. It’s complicated, how I feel about stuff like that right now. Because I made a promise to Lily and I think about it every day. How I swore to be better. It sort of haunts me, because a part of me is scared I’ll fail at it and another part is scared I won’t. I guess I’m scared I only want to be seen as a good person. But I’m also scared that people see me as a bad person. And I’m scared people see me as a good one, too, because then what do I do? Living life as a good person seems hard. Like, a really good person who actually tries at it.  _

_ Outside of the philosophising, all I do is revise. Lily and Remus and I do study dates together. Feels like the three of us spend all our time together these days. I’m doing my best to be less… pushy with her. And it’s sort of working. When you actually talk to her, she’s so much cooler. We’ve got a lot in common. Well. Not a lot. But we’re finding a middle ground.  _

_ Remus is a bit of a mess. I am, too. I didn’t tell you when it happened, but we found a boggart for PA and me and him have the same fear now. The boggart was the same, I mean. Really freaked him out when he saw it. Lily had to take over for us. And I’m still not gonna tell you what it was, because it’ll upset you, but you can probably guess along the right lines. So yeah. We’re both fucked up about all that. About everything.  _

_ It’s almost been a year. I keep wondering if you’re gonna be the same when we see you again. When. I keep having to tell myself it’s when. Not if. When.  _

_ Fuck. Fucking fuck. This fucking sucks, you know that? And you’re an asshole. And I still love you. And I wish it didn’t hurt this much. Somebody asked me the other day if your parents hurt you and I didn’t know whether to lie or not. _

_ Yours,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

“It’s not like it’s going to get any more dire between now and the end of the exams,” Remus tells him one night, as he revises his Muggle Studies work and James scours the evening Prophet for any news, despite the fact that it’s almost always shlucky and dull in the second edition of the day. Any real action takes place overnight. Nothing will have changed by daylight. 

“I know,” James says for the fifth time. "But it helps me. Okay?" 

Remus goes quiet. James thinks of his boggart again. Their boggart. He thinks Remus understands. 

They're hiding out in an abandoned classroom, the library too full to concentrate in, with revising students crammed down every aisle. Remus cast a faint, glowy lumos when it started to get dark, and it hangs gently between them both, filtering golden light out through the room. James has other things he should be doing -- revision, homework, writing back to his parents’ last letter, which is still sitting on his bedside table. 

"Why are you even revising Muggle Studies?" James asks. "You know all about that stuff. Isn't the exam just, like, asking what a car and a toaster and a plug is?" 

"Yeah," Remus admits. "But... well. I'm checking it all over just in case." 

"You will always mystify me." 

Remus smiles faintly. "That's what I'm here for." 

"And you succeed valiantly." 

"Good to hear it." Remus looks up at him, still smiling that fond sort of smile. "You've got toothpaste on your front, by the way." 

"Oh, bloody-" James tries to peel it off with his fingernail and it just goes spotty and pale in a stain against his robes. "Shit..."

"Here." Remus wets his thumb against his tongue and leans over, grabbing James' robes to rub at the stain gently. James lets him, their noses very close. Remus' breath smells like mint toothpaste, and his robes smell of topsoil from Herbology earlier. 

Too quickly, the moment is over. Remus sits back in his seat and James stares out of the window just so he can stare at something that isn’t Remus. “Thanks, Moons.” 

“Moons?” 

“Sorry. Moony.” 

Remus’ smile has fallen when James looks back at him. Silence takes them both again. 

That is, until running footsteps sound out faintly, far away but drawing closer. 

Remus looks up and meets James’ gaze. They half-stand, both of them, ready to gather their things should they be kicked out. 

Lily bursts in, hair flying behind her. She’s clutching a stack of magazines and panting. 

“Took me ages to find you both,” she rambles, staggering over to the head desk and plunking the pile down on it. “I had to ask Mary, and she sent me on a goosehunt to find that Hufflepuff James has been tutoring, and then-” 

Lily draws in a deep breath and composes herself. Then, she turns to the both of them. 

“I’ve got it,” she says, halfway tentative, halfway hopeful. “What might help us find Sirius. I think I’ve got it.” 

James shoots out from behind his desk. “What?” 

“I was sitting in the girls’ dorm,” Lily explains. “Reading. I decided I’d give myself a night off for once, you know? Just reread my favourite fantasy novel and try not to think about anything for the evening. And Marlene was talking with Cassandra about something stupid, really, in retrospect. Which of the witches’ magazines is the best. And they agreed they’re all awful, of course, because most of them are managed by men and pureblood men at that, who don’t know  _ anything  _ about fashion, let alone what women are interested in beyond that--” 

“Get to the point,” Remus urges gently, seeming to sense that James is on the cusp of exploding or catching fire or something. 

“I’m getting there,” she snaps. “They were talking about  _ Witch Weekly  _ and how it’s the best one because it’s the most popular, so it gets the most high-profile interviews and scoops, and it manages to do photo shoots and press at the coolest places all over wizarding Britain, right? And Marlene said, oh, I love their wedding spreads, aren’t they just darling? And Cassandra laughs and goes, I think they’re quite repulsive, I could never live in one of those Ancient and Noble houses, not if they paid me, and Marlene said,  _ Witch Weekly _ is about the only publication in the country that shows glances into the houses of the pureblood elite, through those wedding spread, and-- and--” 

She looks between them both desperately. 

“And what else do the really bad families do than get bloody married!” she explodes. “And we could look through all the wedding spreads to find the locations of each of their places--” 

“And Sirius is likely to be in one of them,” James says, as it all snaps into place. “We can locate each manor, because they’ve all got tons of properties but this’ll show us where they live year-round--” 

Lily is nodding in a desperate sort of way. “And we can get an eye for the interiors, the layouts, and from there we can keep a look out for the families’ names in the papers and narrow down our selection--” 

“Merlin, you’re a genius-” 

Flushed with pleasure, Lily shakes her head. “It’s a start isn’t it? I borrowed all of Marlene’s copies, they date back to this time last year, and it’ll take a while to go through them all and find their locations, find their owners, but--” 

But James has been swarmed by a growing grin. He can feel it twisting his face. It almost hurts in its unfamiliarity. He surges forwards without thinking about it and hugs Lily hard around the middle. She stiffens up and then pats his back awkwardly. 

“You’re welcome,” she says doggedly into his shoulder. “Now, if we want to make a dent before morning classes, we should start now.” 

James pulls away. “But-- your night off,” he stays, stupidly. 

She examines his face, properly studies it. James wonders if he’s still got toothpaste on his robes. 

“I will never understand you,” she says. 

Remus laughs breathlessly from behind them. “Funny, we were…” he trails off. “Thank you.” 

“No problem.” Lily turns back to the pile of  _ Witch Weekly _ ’s on the desk. “My night off can wait. Come on.” 

* * *

_ Pads,  _

_ Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley. Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley. Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley. Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley. Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley. Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley.  _

_ We’ve got it down to that lot. Obviously, we know it’s not… necessarily one of them. But from what we can match up from the Pure-Blood Directory, Marlene McKinnon’s copies of Witch Weekly, the prophet’s reporting on death eater attacks and everything we can find on His supporters in Le Nouveau Monde, that’s the best we can get together.  _

_ Dolohov, Malfoy, Rosier, Fawley, Carrow, Yaxley. One of them’s got you. One of them’s hurting you.  _

_ Having names and faces makes it all worse. I spent all of last night staring at the pictures we’ve gathered of them in the dark, right until Remus marched over from his bed and took them off me and told me he’ll slip a sleeping draft into my morning pumpkin juice if I don’t rest. He got caught staring at them after that, though, so who’s winning? Neither of us ended up sleeping.  _

_ Almost all of them have got kids or nephews in the school. I very nearly told some of Padfoot’s Army about it, about who we suspect, just to spill some shame in the water, to get Gryffindor on their backs and see these stupid kids squirm, just to get a tiny act of revenge, I guess. People would rain hell on them. But I can’t stop thinking about that promise, so in the end, I managed to convince myself not to. It was a fucking struggle, though. I hate this ethics stuff. It was easier to just help good people and hurt bad people. But nothing’s simple now.  _

_ Remus and I went to Dumbledore about it. He thanked us for the information and didn’t give us any in return. I think he already knew. In fact, I think he thinks all three of us are idiots for trying. Unfortunately for him, I don’t have to listen to a bloody word he says, so that’s that.  _

_ We’re getting CLOSER!!! Keep up hope!!!!! _

_ Yours, always, all the time, every day, not a moment when I’m not,  _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

It’s two weeks before James’ first OWL when it happens. 

He’s in Charms, furiously scribbling notes as Flitwick goes over past papers with them all, rattling through every past examination of the last ten years (they don’t seem to change much, funny, that) when there’s a firm knock at the classroom door and Professor McGonagall pokes her head in. 

“Apologies for the interruption, Professor Flitwick,” she says. “Mr. Potter, would you come with me?” 

James looks up, disoriented. “Uh, sure, Professor.” He scrambles to put his parchment away, capping his inkpot with numb hands and shuffling to the door after her.

He catches Remus and Lily watching him.  _ I’ll be fine, _ he mouths at them, and then steps out.

McGonagall doesn’t speak as she leads him to her office. James spends the whole time listening to their footsteps in the quiet and wracking his brain for something he’s done wrong. Nothing comes to mind immediately. Maybe she’s figured out about Padfoot’s Army, but surely she would have called Remus and Lily along if that was the case, too. Maybe it’s for something old, some prank they all pulled when they were fourteen that has only just been discovered. A dungbomb that went off two years late like an unexploded mine. 

It becomes evident, when she sits him down across from her desk and closes the door behind them, that this isn’t about a prank. 

McGonagall looks older than usual, older by a decade or more, as she sits in her high-backed chair and surveys him. There’s a letter open on her desk. 

“Tea and a biscuit, Mr. Potter?” she offers. 

That’s about the last thing James had expected. “Uh… sure, professor. Sounds good.” 

She’s got bourbons and custard creams. She pours them both a mug tea with only a dash of milk, just like James likes it. James chews on his custard cream and watches her. Outside of the window, a flock of migrating birds swells across the sky. 

“Did I do something wrong, Professor?” James asks eventually. 

McGonagall sighs very heavily. “No, Mr. Potter. You’re not here for disciplinary purposes, don’t worry. No, this is…” And she hesitates. “I’ve unfortunately received some bad news.” 

Immediately, ice-cold dread seeps down through James like poison. He grips the desk hard, trying not to let the room spin and pound around him like it does when he’s panicking. 

“Sirius,” he says, gasps it out so it sounds less like a name and more like blasphemy. “Is it Sirius? Is he alive? Did you get him out--” 

She holds up a hand. “Unfortunately,” she says delicately, “We do not have any news on Mr. Black’s situation that we didn’t have before. Nothing has changed.” 

James sags in his seat. Nothing could be worse than that, surely. “Thank Merlin.” 

But McGonagall’s face doesn’t lighten. If anything, it creases further, dark and malformed, into something rotten by the sunlight through the window. 

“James,” she says, delicately. The axe lifts. “There’s been a death eater attack at Godric’s Hollow. It happened this morning.” 

All the air leaves James’ lungs. He stares. 

“I’m so sorry,” McGonagall says. For the first time in the whole time he’s known her, James thinks she might cry, but she doesn’t. Just watches him with sad, rotten eyes. 

“They’re…” No words. Nothing. He might as well be illiterate. He might as well be on another planet. “Are they at St. Mungos? Are they hurt?” 

“By the time forces arrived to aid them,” McGonagall murmurs, “It was too late.” 

“No.” 

“Mr. Potter--” 

“No!” James shouts. “That’s-- no! You can’t just say something like that, you can’t--” He stands up and throws his bag against the wall like a child. “Professor, you can’t… you can’t…” 

She doesn’t scold him. Just watches and nods like she understands, which she doesn’t, she never will. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not true,” James says. “Please, it’s… it’s…” Strangled, he scrambles for something, anything to say to make it stop. To make the whole wretched thing go away. “They’re strong, really strong, you can’t know they’re gone-- I want to see them for myself--”

“I’m sorry,” she says again, simply. She seems to know there isn’t much she can say. 

“No, you’re not!” James shouts. “You’re not sorry! You and Dumbledore and all the others, every one of you, you’re not sorry, you don’t care!” 

He darts across the room to the fireplace and lights it with a flick of his wand. There’s a small pot of floo powder on the mantle and, without thinking, James grabs a handful and tosses it over the flames, which lash up at him, green and hypnotising, as if to say,  _ I could consume you. _

He fights the monster of it. “Potter House, Newport!” he shouts. 

The emerald flames flicker for a second. Then, they fade back to red and gold. 

“It was destroyed,” McGonagall says, still sitting at the desk. “Mr. Potter, please sit--” 

James hurls the pot of floo powder across the room with a shout and it smashes against the wall. “Sirius is gone!” he bellows. “And if they’re gone too-- I can’t take it, professor, not another person. Not two. Not now. Not after this fucking year. I fucking can’t.” 

McGonagall doesn’t flinch at the swearing. When she stands up, James goes still. She doesn’t shout, though, doesn’t lash out her wand. She just takes his arm and leads him gently back to the desk, sits him down. 

Methodically, she makes another mug of tea. It sits, undrunk, next to the other. James watches his shaking hands. 

“From what I understand,” she says gently, after a long stretch of silence, “You have no living relatives?” 

James shakes his head miserably. “No.” 

“The school is willing to help fund funeral costs and anything else--” 

“I can do it,” James says. He means to snap it but he just feels tired now, all the rage sapped out of him. “They left me everything. I think.” 

McGonagall nods, something very sad to it. “Yes, James, they did.” 

“Do I have to go deal with that?” 

“Not if you don’t want to,” she says gently. “But if you would like to, you’re entitled to a week away from school automatically, and you can appeal for more if you so wish--” 

“I’ll take the week,” James says. And then it rushes up in him like a tidal wave and he curls up in the chair, arms wrapped around his stomach, and sobs. 

* * *

_ Pads,  _

_ They’re dead. My parents. Apparently some death eater found out about my mother’s activism and… well. Dark Mark over the town and all. There wasn’t much left of either of them. _

_ I’m home now. It’s not actually home. A muggle hotel in Godric’s. Home home is gone. It could be rebuilt, a Ministry rep told me yesterday, but I don’t want to. I don’t know why.  _

_ I didn’t tell Remus and Lily before I went. I haven’t really talked to anybody about it. The feeling of it is bubbling around in my stomach and I think if I try to vocalise it I’ll just end up vomiting grief and anger and fear and confusion and shock and hurt and bitterness and pain and loss everywhere. I’ve got five more days and then I have to go back to Hogwarts. Before that, I have to bury them. Their bodies are being portkeyed to me tomorrow afternoon.  _

_ I hired a muggle man to find a plot of land, coffins and all that. I want to bury them myself, though. There are people who want to come to the funeral but I’m not doing a fucking funeral. Not right now. Life feels like a funeral and I’m not making another one.  _

_ I didn’t even reply to their letters. I’m a rotten person to my core and it should have been me, not them, and no promise is going to change that. _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

He buries them on a Sunday. All the sadness in the world seems to lash around him like a noose and he spends the whole time with that awful feeling behind his eyes like he might just start crying, but no tears fall. They lie in a joint grave in Godric’s Hollow, headstone carved of white marble. Snowdrops curl around the stone as James finishes, sitting down in front of them in the dirt, even though it’s summer. 

He’s sweaty and dirty and ragged. He wants to be a shooting star, a forest fire. Anything but a man. 

When the owl lands on his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch. It’s Remus’, and he’s been expecting it. With fumbling hands, he unties the note and lets the owl flutter back off into the sky, dark against the blue. 

_ James,  _

_ We finally learned why you’re not here. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know how to start saying it. I’m so, so sorry. It’s awful.  _

_ I hope you’re okay, or as okay as you can be, at least. Lily and I are keeping up the research without you here, so you don’t need to worry about searching the papers. Are you going to be back before OWLs? If you want to give them a miss and resit next year, I won’t blame you, not one bit. I can’t even imagine how awful this is for you.  _

_ I owled my parents first, so I’m sorry this is late, but they said you can come stay with us over the summer. Our place is really small, so we would probably have to top-and-tail in my bed unless we can fit a mattress in my room, which I don’t know that we can. If you’re okay with that, then I want you to come stay. I don’t want you to be alone.  _

_ Lily sends all her love. She actually cried when she heard about it. I would have been shocked but I was crying, too. She thinks it’s all so unfair. I think she really does like you, James, if that’s any consolation to any of this, which somehow I doubt that it is after everything we’ve been through this past year. She seems to think you’re trying, really trying. I’d believe it, too, I think.  _

_ Once OWLs and the school year are over, we’ll have time to slow down. Things will get just a little easier. Okay?  _

_ I love you. We both do. Sirius, too.  _

_ \- Remus Lupin. _

James is supposed to go back to school on Thursday, and until then he spends most of his time lying on the hotel floor in a timeless sort of fugue state. He writes more letters to Sirius and balls them up and throws them away. He contemplates writing Remus back and then doesn’t bother, and then feels like an asshole for it, because he knows Remus and Remus is bound to be worrying out of his mind. 

The OWLs loom closer by the day. James imagines them a lot, Remus and Lily, studying together by the fire, cramming as the examination days draw closer. The library is probably more full than ever, and their whole year are probably running around with their heads shoved in their books, frantically exchanging study notes and cheating tips. 

He feels almost like he’s at the calm, quiet centre of a hurricane. James doesn’t touch his study notes once in those days. He brought them with him when he left school, and they sit in a backpack by the window. He looks at them a lot. But he doesn’t touch them. 

Lily sends a letter too. James doesn’t read it. He wants to, but he just can’t. 

The hotel has pretty good room service, he discovers on his final night there, when he tries to stand up and the world goes black as the blood drains out of his head. The night draws in as he sits on the covers of the twin bed and chews down a burger and chips, slathered in vinegar and mustard. It’s greasy and thick, sitting heavy in his stomach. He forces himself through it.  _ You can’t die here. Not after this car crash of a year. God would laugh at the irony of it.  _

After that, he takes a shower. Washes his face without looking himself in the eye in the mirror. Opens the window and sticks his head out over the muggle street and breathes in the hot summer evening air. Tries desperately, like it’s a cure, to feel like a person again. 

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work.

* * *

_ Pads, _

_ I’m going back to school today. They’re sending a portkey via owl in a few hours to get me, and I’ll be moving back into the Gryffindor boys’ dorm tonight. Feels weird to call it that now. It’s more like the Gryffindor Remus and James dorm now.  _

_ I don’t know how I feel. Numb in a fragile sort of way. There’s this weird feeling sitting on my throat like I’m constantly about three seconds away from crying, which sucks, because if I cry in front of Lily she’s going to think I’m a loser, and if I cry in front of Remus he’s just going to get really sad about it, so I really want to be able to hold it together.  _

_ Sorry I haven’t written to you much since it happened. I don’t know what to say, let alone how to say it, so I’ve sort of settled for saying nothing. It sucks, though. Feeling like this is all some cruel joke. Whoever’s up there has really got it in for me, haven’t they? I got the girl and I don’t even care about it because you’re not here and she’s nothing like I thought she was and now. Now.  _

_ Nobody heard or saw their last moments. That bit gets to me the most. I keep imagining it, what they might have said. What it might have been like.  _

_ I don’t know, Sirius. I don’t know what the fuck to do now. In movies and books when something bad happens it’s to teach you a lesson, or to motivate you. To make you driven and angry and ready to fight. But I don’t feel ready to fight, I don’t even feel angry. I just want to lie down and never get up again. I want you here so we can yell and break stuff and do stupid things. I want everything to be like it was this time last year.  _

_ It hasn’t sunk in. I’m scared that when it does, I’ll still feel the same way. You know? I don’t know if you know, actually. You hate your parents and I don’t know if you’ve ever lost somebody. I don’t think I ever asked. Does Regulus count? Were you two ever close? And now I’m sad because I never bothered to talk to you about that stuff and I might never get the chance.  _

_ And they’re gone. I’ve got school friends and teachers and that’s all I have. No family left. I don’t know if that’s the bit that’s making me sad or if it’s something else.  _

_ I don’t know.  _

_ Yours, even now, _

_ Prongs.  _

* * *

Remus lunges to his feet when James enters the dorm. He’d been lying on his bed reading a book before. It’s nine PM and he obviously hadn’t been expecting him. 

“Hi,” James murmurs. He lets his backpack fall off his shoulder. In muggle clothes, he feels like a poorly chosen decoration. 

Remus drinks him in. Then, he pads across the room, bare feet soft on the carpet, and pulls James in, gripping him fiercely. Numb and tired, James hugs him back. They stand like that for a long time, swaying in the middle of the dorm, Remus’ arms fisting in his shirt tighter and tighter, James’ chin hooked over his narrow shoulder. Remus’ knitted sweater smells like him, all old paper and ink. It feels like the closest thing to home there is. 

There aren’t any words that can be said to make this okay. Even if there were, James doubts Remus would say them, because the silence speaks louder than either of them could. 

Remus pulls back just slightly. James tilts his head down so his chin digs in.  _ Don’t leave yet, _ he tries to say without saying it. 

“Okay,” Remus murmurs. “Come on.” 

They pile onto James’ bed together, Remus sitting back against the headboard with James in the loop of his long arms. It reminds James, bizarrely, of a muggle movie he saw with Sirius years ago, a scene where two girls cuddled to watch TV together after a nasty breakup. Casual, desperate comfort. 

James breathes in that smell again. “You can tell her I’m back.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah. She deserves to know.” 

“She’s been worried about you.” One of Remus’ spindly hands spiders up James’ shoulder to play with the hair at the nape of his neck, twirling it around his fingers again and again. “I think having you gone made her realise how much she likes spending time with you, if I’m honest. She really does like you.” 

“I don’t care much,” James admits. “I’m glad she’s my friend. She’s great like that. Says cool things.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Maybe I can start dating her in a few years. When things are less awful.”

Remus laughs soft and throaty. His warm thumb drifts behind James’ ear. “Yeah, maybe.” Something in his voice seems to say,  _ you’ve changed while not changing at all. _

They lie together for a long time. At some point, Remus scribbles a note to Lily and spells it to flutter over to the girls’ dorm, something short and uncomplicated. Then, he puts his wand on the floor and goes back to cradling James’ head like it’s something precious. Something worth protecting. 

“I hate that things are so unfair,” he says to James after the silence has loosened its hold on them both. “I hate that he’s gone and they’re gone, now, too. I hate that I keep waiting to see him again even though I know I might never get to. I hate that there’s a war. I hate that we have to do this.”

James says nothing. He curls his arms around Remus’ stomach and tries to force the nausea away. 

“I hate that I’m making this about me, too.” 

“It is about you,” James says. He out over the room, out towards the window, through which soft, half-moonlight drifts. “If it’s about me, it’s about you.” 

Remus squeezes him. His hand doesn’t still in his hair. “You gonna get back to cramming with us tomorrow?” he asks gently. 

James considers the question. “No,” he admits, because he’s tired. Because he’s aching. Because all he wants to do is be something, anything, other than what he is. “No, I don’t think I can.” 

“Okay,” Remus whispers. He flicks his wrist and the lights dim. They shuffle down under the covers together, still dressed, both of them half-lit, both of them doomed. 

“Okay?” James clarifies. 

Remus nods. He rubs the pad of his thumb along the space beside James’ eye, something awful in it. “Okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments really do mean the world to me. <33

**Author's Note:**

> thank for reading pals! since i re-entered this fandom, ive gotten very minimal feedback on a lot of my stuff, so if you can, a comment would be really amazing. i check for them often and they make my day whenever i see them, so if you're the type of person who leaves comments, thanks. you're the real mvp. 
> 
> gonna update as soon as im able, but you know how it is. until then, stay safe!


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